Short End of the Stick
by BulletsCoffeeFaith
Summary: In which Dean is delirious with fever, and Sam considers the ridiculous concept of luck. Oneshot.


**So I'm not going to lie. This is probably the worst thing I've ever written. Like...ever. But, as you can tell by the dates on my most "recent" stories, I've been lacking a lot of inspiration in the fanfic genre lately. This was written as a gift for PyschoPicasso, and I'm so terribly sorry if it's as shitty as I feel like it is. I tried, I really did.**

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Sam Winchester had never been one to believe in luck and chance.

Good or bad, luck was a figment of the human imagination. Creative, yes, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that the universe simply favored certain people more than others. The universe was a delicate balance of nature. There was no such thing as luck, and there were certainly no such things as curses.

Dean and their father, however, had never really shared his view on the subject. In fact, quite the opposite.

The two had always seemed convinced that the Winchester name was a danger magnet, calling out to illness and injury with an open-house invitation. Though they did seem to draw negative attention to themselves more often than not, Sam still refused to participate in the musings the two held on long car rides growing up – the kind that only happened when they were bored out of their minds cooped up in that black metal tin. Discussions and debates over whether their bad luck was really only that – luck – or if one of their long-distant ancestors had pissed off a witch of some sort.

Safe to say, these were the moments when Sam chose to lie back against the leather upholstery and catch up on his sleep. He didn't believe in superstition.

But he did sometimes believe in drawing the short end of the stick. And he believed it happened to him and his brother quite often, even more so after John's death. Hell; short end of the stick didn't cut it. They were screwed.

Sam wondered, as he placed another cool cloth over his unconcious brother's burning forehead, whether his disbelief in shit luck was optimism or blind stupidity.

He slumped down onto the other bed; the one that hadn't been used since they'd checked in. He'd had to all but take the wheel from Dean's hands and force him to pull over after ten too many sharp veers off the roadside. And in the past thirty-six hours, whatever sickness ailed his older brother had gotten progressively worse. Coughing and nausea turned to exhaustion, which turned into fever, which quickly gave way to delirium. He barely had time to just sit and hear himself think, let alone allow himself to lie down on the other bed and just rest.

Because Dean needed him right now, while the Winchester curse held it's best over him once again. As if to prove it, the older man reached out, eyes fluttering open, to grab the wrist that moved again to change the cloth on his forehead.

"S'mmy?" Dean groaned, eyes darting around the round, seemingly oblivious to the everyday setting. He was seeing something which the other Winchester could not. Sam sighed, moving to sit next to his brother, and gently pryed the pale hand from his arm.

"You're fine, Dean," he assured, wincing at the cliché mottos that poured routinely from his mouth. "It's okay. You're fine. Promise. Just go back to sleep, alright?"

"_S'mmy."_ His glare was shifting from Sam to the wall in front of him, as if trying to warn him about some invisible creature. "'S...c-coming for _you_, S'mmy." He grasped weakly at Sam's wrists again, expression urgent as he pulled his younger brother closer. "G't stay b'hind me, S'mmy. _G'tta_..."

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam interrupted lightly. He lifted the covers his brother had been regularly kicking off and folded them back over the man's body. Dean reluctantly let his hands fall back to the matress, but Sam didn't allow himself any relief just yet. He was still staring almost angrily at the empty spot across the room. There was no garuntee that the worst of the fever was over. The hallucinations had become gradually more intense, and, knowing their (God forgive him) _luck,_ he doubted they would be ending any time soon.

Sam watched as Dean's gaze shifted back to him. He gave an awkward, unconvincing smile that was meant to look encouraging. In his delirium, Dean halfway bought it, at least.

With a soft sigh, the green eyes finally fluttered shut once more. Sam still did not breathe easy. They seemed to have drawn the short end of the stick once again.


End file.
